


My Head is Bloody, But Unbowed

by Meabd



Series: Invictus [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Curse Breaking, Graphic depictions of violence - Freeform, M/M, No SERIOUSLY this gets really really dark you've been warned, Smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Time Loop, Under-negotiated Kink, definitely bdsm this time, graphic depictions of death, graphic depictions of self-harm, graphic depictions of suicide, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meabd/pseuds/Meabd
Summary: “Not gonna make it am I?” Jaskier's voice was hoarse. Geralt couldn’t speak.“I love you,” he whispered. Silent tears ran down the Witcher's face. Not again, please not again.“I love you too,” Geralt bent over Jaskier, brushing a kiss against his forehead.“I’m glad I got to have this before…” he wasn’t choking anymore.Geralt screamed.Sequel to The Fell Clutch of Circumstance, but can be read in any order.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Invictus [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794715
Comments: 48
Kudos: 721
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	My Head is Bloody, But Unbowed

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, there is a _graphic_ depiction of suicide in this chapter. If that's not your thing then skip section 1.962.

1.

Geralt’s eyes blinked open, then shut tight against the soft light of dawn. After savoring a brief moment of peace he clambered out of his bedroll, shaking the early morning dew from his hair. Geralt busied himself with packing up camp, glancing towards the snoring lump that was Jaskier. 

He did _too_ snore, the lying bastard. 

An affectionate smile came to the Witcher’s lips, falling quickly away as the bard stirred, hauling himself up onto his elbows to survey the packed camp with bleary eyes. 

“G’morn’in,” he yawned.

“Hmm,” Geralt threw an apple at the bard, snorting when he fumbled the catch. Jaskier eyeballed the apple in his hands and the bedroll he had to pick up. He shrugged, biting into the red fruit and holding it in between his teeth as he set about cleaning up.

Jaskier made a noise that sounded like a “thank you” as he sat on the ground struggling to fold the voluminous cloth of his bedroll. Geralt grabbed the mess of fabric and Jaskier’s answering look was grateful. 

“Think we ought to hit Lindenvale by tomorrow night,” Geralt commented, tightening the straps of Roach’s saddlebags. “Contract’s for a Grave Hag but it’s probably just a ghoul, or worst case scenario an Abaya. Ought to be some quick coin either way.” Jaskier hummed around his apple as he finished tying the laces of one boot. He removed the (slight _wet_ looking—ew) fruit from his mouth and chewed quickly. 

“Actually Geralt there’s a bardic competition being held in Novigrad that I was planning on going to,” Jaskier’s grip on the apple was loose and he looked carefree in that messy artistic way of his. Geralt stared intently at his bard, just a _little_ disappointed. Really. 

“When are you leaving then?” _Obviously before tomorrow night or he wouldn’t have brought it up, idiot._

Jaskier shrugged, he placed the half finished apple on top of his lute case and set about lacing his other boot. 

“Well the competition is next week, but if I leave tomorrow I can spend a couple days in the city before it starts. Besides, maybe you can help me workshop a couple new songs before I go,” Jaskier’s wink was teasing and the accompanying smile lit up his whole face. 

“And what are you planning to _do_ in Novigrad for a few days, Jaskier?” Geralt deliberately ignored the suggestion. 

“Oh who knows, might dilly dally around the Passiflora for a few days, if Priscilla is in town we could catch up, play a few gigs together.”

“We were as good as chased out of Mulbrydale after you fucked the blacksmith’s wife. You’re _broke_ ,” Geralt pointed out with no small amount of derision in his voice. “I doubt you’d be able to spend a few days at Crippled Kate’s with that much coin,” he nodded at the deflated pouch resting against Jaskier’s hip.

“Well that’s just _rude_ Geralt, honestly. Kate runs a fine establishment but Madame Serenity is rather fond of me. A day or two taking a trip down memory lane and I’ll be flush,” Jaskier huffed. 

Wait. ‘A trip down memory lane’?

“Jaskier…” the bard looked up, blanching at whatever he saw on Geralt’s face. “What do you _mean_ , a trip down memory lane?” Jaskier was oddly subdued. 

“Oh, you know, had to pay my way through university _somehow_ ,” he chirped. The smile on his face looked insincere. 

“No… I _don’t_ know. Why don’t you explain it, Jaskier?” The bard fiddled with his laces. His obvious reluctance to meet Geralt’s eyes was troubling. 

“I—well, I had… some _friends_ that were very generous. That’s how I met the Countess de Stael...” Geralt could see the realization bloom across Jaskier’s features. He _knew_ he had let too much slip. 

“The Countess de Stael. The woman you spent last winter with,” Geralt wasn’t asking a question, he was making an accusation. Judging by the uncharacteristic silence he was met with he had his answer. 

“Jask, it sounds to me like you’ve been _selling_ yourself for room and board,” Jaskier glared at him, but said nothing in his own defense. “Please, _please_ tell me I’ve got that wrong because I didn’t take you for a common _whore_ ,” Geralt all but spit at him, and this time Jaskier _didn’t_ stay quiet. 

“That is fucking _rich_ coming from you, ‘White Wolf’, oh great connoisseur of sluts,” the bard stood, stepping close to Geralt. “Because it seems a bit hypocritical, you know, that you are perfectly fine with me selling my _artistic_ talents, just not my _carnal_ ones.” Jaskier punctuated his anger with a sharp push that did absolutely nothing to unbalance the Witcher, which only seemed to fuel his outrage. 

“That’s different Jaskier and you _know_ it,” they were toe to toe now, close enough that Geralt could smell the sweet lavender oil the bard used in his bath. 

“ _Bullshit_. There’s a reason you’re so stuck on this, what is it Geralt?” The challenge was heavy in his melodious voice, and it was a challenge Geralt was keen to take. 

“Why am I _stuck_ on this? My friend tells me that he bargains for a bed with his _fucking cock_ , how am I _supposed_ to feel? Do you think for one second I’d have left you if I knew _that_ was how you were making ends meet?” Geralt’s voice rose, and he thought, in passing, that this was _Jask_ he was screaming at. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“You think I spent four months warming the Countess’ bed because you _left_ me?” An incredulous laugh bubbled out of Jaskier’s parted lips. Geralt said nothing, because yes that’s _exactly_ what he thought. That’s what Jaskier had _said_. 

“Some _friend_ you are, Geralt. You’re a greater fool than I thought,” Jaskier stepped back. Somehow the soft disappointment in his voice was so much _worse_ than the vitriol. The bard grabbed his pack and stood stiffly. 

“I think we ought to part now, Geralt. Maybe when we next see each other you’ll have re-examined this particular stance of yours.” Jaskier paused for a moment, as if waiting for Geralt to stop him. 

He did not. 

Jaskier’s back was ramrod straight as he walked away. Of all the disagreements they’d had, somehow _this_ one seemed to be the worst. 

* * *

Geralt took his time checking and re-checking his pack. Jaskier had forgotten his bedroll, maybe the bard would be back for it? 

The mid-morning sun burned bright and the Witcher took stock of the broken down campsite. Jaskier wasn’t coming back. 

Geralt shook his head, willing away the image of the only friend he had walking away with a stiff back and one unlaced boot. Geralt was accustomed to Jaskier’s tantrums, they had tiffs and petty squabbles all the time. This didn’t feel like a petty squabble. 

With a great sigh he heaved himself up onto Roach. 

“Nothing to do for it now, girl. He’ll get over it,” Geralt hoped. 

They set off south towards Lindenvale, though his lingering at the campsite wasted time and Geralt was certain they wouldn’t make it there before sunset. That was fine, without the bard there to complain about fatigue or sore feet he wouldn’t have to take a break. It would be the middle of the night before he actually made it to town, but the inkeep would surely be up. 

Which, on second thought, he’d just set up his bedroll in the forest beyond the gate. Jaskier was always the one insisting on staying in a bed. 

In the absence of mindless chatter the natural noises of the forest seemed very loud; the harsh laughter somewhere ahead especially out of place. Geralt paid it no mind, he didn’t especially like to engage travelers when alone. Conversation wasn’t _his_ forté. 

As Geralt continued down the narrow dirt path the indistinct hum of voices came into focus. 

“What d’ya think it’s worth Torval?”

“Eh, couple of coins. Too bad he doesn’t have much _else_ on him,” a soft _thump_ followed by a low groan rang out. 

Fantastic. Bandits. 

Geralt slowed Roach to a halt debating on whether or not to interfere. He didn’t like to meddle. 

“S’worth more than you sorry sacks of shit,” _Jaskier_.

There was the discordant sound of lute strings breaking. Geralt’s blood ran cold. He vaulted off Roach, steel sword already in hand. 

“What’s it worth _now_ asshole?” Geralt barrelled into the small clearing. Two large men loomed over Jaskier, obscuring Geralt’s view. He cast Aard and the men were thrown sideways into their tent, landing in a heap of dazed limbs and canvas.

The bard was against a tree, slumped over and clutching at his stomach. There was so much blood it took Geralt a moment to realize why. His lute had been broken, the body of the instrument laying at his feet, the neck impaling the soft flesh of his flank. 

Gerlt made the sign for Igni without a second thought. The tent caught fire and the bandits _screamed_. The smell of their flesh cooking was cloying. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt knelt at his bard’s feet. He said nothing. He couldn’t pull the neck out or risk doing more damage, but there was already _so much blood_.

“Jask, _please_ ,” cornflower blue eyes were open, he was _looking_ at Geralt but he didn’t seem to _see_ him. 

Geralt reached for one gore covered hand, clutching it tightly.

“I’ve got you,” he promised.

Blood had bubbled out of his mouth and spilled down the front of his shirt.

“Stay with me,” Geralt could tell he was crying as he begged. He didn’t care. The hand he was holding was cold and limp. 

“ _I love you_.”

* * *

1.2

Geralt shot up from his bedroll. The soft light of dawn seemed very bright to him. His eyes darted about the campsite, when they landed on his sleeping bard Geralt almost tripped over himself on his way to the bedroll. 

He flung the blanket off and Jaskier startled awake at the sudden chill. Geralt’s hands brushed his lips— _no blood_ —and lingered over the sharp line of bone as his large palms came to rest over delicate ribs. He was okay. 

“Geralt, what’s going on?” Jaskier’s voice was soft and confused, but he made no move to untangle himself. “Did you have a bad dream?” One hand came to rest over Geralt’s, and the _warmth_ of it was so welcome he nearly cried. 

“I… don’t know. It must have been…” it didn’t _feel_ like a dream. Geralt made no move to pull away. After what seemed like a very long moment Jaskier shimmied out of his grasp, the Witcher felt bereft at the absence. Jaskier leaned over to retrieve the blanket Geralt had flung away and draped it over his shoulders. With a little poking and prodding he had Geralt settled comfortable next to him on the bedroll. 

“Tell me what happened,” Jaskier let one finger rub circles on Geralt’s knee. He grabbed the bard’s hand and enveloped it with both of his, the barely concealed look of surprise and contentment that passed over Jaskier’s face had Geralt holding just a little bit tighter. 

“We split up… you were attacked by bandits,” Geralt didn’t look at Jaskier. “I hesitated. Didn’t know it was you, didn’t want to get involved. When I got there they had run you through with the neck of your lute,” if he had just gone to check things out when he first heard the commotion Jaskier would have been _fine_. 

“What _brutes_ , I can’t believe they didn’t just stab me like civilised criminals! What did my lute ever do to _them_ ,” Jaskier _was_ fine. The huffy tone of his voice had Geralt furrowing his brows. Of course _that’s_ the detail he latches on to. Jaskier looked down at their joined hands. He inhaled sharply, as if preparing to say something, but instead pursed his lips together tightly. 

“I’m sorry. That wasn’t funny. Forgive me dearheart,” Geralt’s stern gaze softened. He should tell him. He should say it. 

“I _lost_ you Jask,” he was a coward. 

“You didn’t lose me, I’m right here. Not going anywhere, I promise,” the smile was sunny as ever and Geralt felt the pressure in his chest abate, just a bit. 

“Let’s just stay here for the day,” Geralt suggested quietly, “you can play me the songs you’re writing for Novigrad,” Jaskier’s smile didn’t drop, but there was an uncertainty in his eyes. 

“Didn’t realise I’d mentioned it yet, but who am _I_ to deny my very best friend in the whole wide world the pleasure of a private show,” the chipperness of tone was belied by the question in his gaze. He slipped his hand out of Geralt’s and stood with a stretch, plucking his lute off the ground he headed toward the fallen elm. “Well I’m famished darling, how about you go hunt down some breakfast while I tune the old girl up?” 

The Witcher shrugged out of the blanket and silently grabbed his crossbow. The soft strumming of the lute stopped abruptly and Jaskier huffed a startled gasp. 

“Geralt?” He turned. Jaskier was perched on the elm, his lute still in hand, though the grasp was weak. His pupils were blown wide and his mouth slightly ajar. On the elm next to him stretched a cobra, its fangs buried deep in the bard’s thigh. 

The snake was relieved of its head and Geralt was on his knees ripping at the silk fabric of the trousers. Already the wound was swollen, the ivory skin of his thigh suddenly a dark, angry red. Despite the deep, inflamed puncture wounds no blood was coming out… which was a _very_ bad sign. Jaskier gently lay the lute against the elm. His expression was open, filled with fear and _trust_ , so much _trust_. 

“Geralt?” His voice was higher now, panic laced through his words. The Witcher’s hands were still against the tender flesh, unable to pull back, unable to pull away. 

“Jask you’re going to be okay, I promise. Just hold still,” Geralt fastened his lips around the wound and sucked in a mouthful of bitter, rancid blood. He could taste the venom, the oily poison coating the walls of his mouth, sliding to the back of his throat and resting there. He spit the blood out, like ink against the dirt, and went back for another mouthful. 

“Have to admit this wasn’t what I’d imagined for the first time your head was between my thighs,” the joke’s delivery was flat, presumably to keep the tremor from his voice. Geralt paid him no heed as he spit another mouthful of black blood on the ground. 

“I’m dying, aren’t I?” Suck. Spit.

“I won’t _let_ you die.” Suck. Spit. 

“It’s okay Geralt. It’s not so bad. I figured something like this might happen eventually. I’m just glad you’re here,” the words were sluggish now. 

“I love you, you know. I’ve always loved you,” Jaskier continued. Geralt felt a hand on his head, pulling his gaze up. Jaskier’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. 

“Stop it Jask. I love you too, you are _not_ going to die on me,” the smile on Jaskier’s face was heartbreakingly beautiful. 

“Wish you’d told me that sooner…” the bard slid bonelessly off the elm and into Geralt’s arms. He nuzzled a pallid cheek against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“I’ll tell you every day for the rest of our lives,” the Witcher choked out, cradling the bard’s body like the precious, fragile thing it was. 

“‘Mm just glad you told me today.” 

“Jask.” He shook him. 

“ _Jask.”_

His head fell back. Unseeing eyes stared up at the sky, the same shade of blue. 

* * *

1.53

Nothing was working. Geralt adjusted the straps on Roach’s harness, making sure the footholds were solid. He wouldn’t have Jaskier falling off again. 

“Alright Jask, up,” Geralt helped guide the bard solidly into the saddle before pulling himself up, angling them both so that Jaskier was caged in by his arms. 

“Not that I’m complaining darling,” Jaskier settled into Geralt’s hold, pressing himself into the broad armoured chest, “but tell me again what the fuss is about?” 

“You’re cursed,” Geralt ground out. “We’re going to the witch outside of Mulbrydale, see if she can’t sort you out.” Jaskier hummed and Geralt felt the vibrations even through the leather of his armour. 

“I don’t _feel_ cursed. How do you know I’m cursed?” The bard’s slim fingers were tapping out a rhythm on the horn of the saddle. Geralt sighed. He hated getting this question. 

“My medallion is vibrating,” his voice left no room for negotiation. 

“I don’t _feel_ it vibrating” one of these tries Jaskier won’t argue about it. 

“It’s _magic_ Jask,” Geralt growled. Jaskier said nothing this time, his tapping falling into sync with Geralt’s breath. 

The trip to the hut was a short one, made longer by Geralt’s steadfast refusal to put Roach into a canter. They’d never actually _made it_ to the hut before, something always went wrong. Jaskier always wound up… there was a sour taste in Geralt’s mouth. 

The Witcher didn’t _want_ to involve some backwater witch, but he had already gone through every sort of curse breaking he knew, and without a reliable way to contact Yennefer... yokel occultist it was. 

“So what kind of curse is it?” Jaskier angled his head up, from its resting place against Geralt’s shoulder he locked eyes on the Witcher’s temple. Geralt didn’t answer. He never knew how to answer this one. “Oh come _on_ Ger, I deserve to know I think,” the bard wheedled. He knew Geralt disliked that nickname. 

“It’s… vengeance. It causes great suffering,” Geralt didn’t lie, per se. He’d just elected to tell the bard how it made him feel, rather than the actual _category_ of its magic. Jaskier hummed in response. 

“You know I’m really rather jealous of those Witcher-senses of yours. Took one look at me this morning to tell all that! There’s a ballad in there somewhere…” the Witcher kept his mouth shut. He didn’t know how to tell Jaskier about what had been happening. He didn’t want to scare him, and if the day started over anyway at least at this rate Geralt _himself_ was the only one left to remember the suffering. 

Then of course there was the matter of his feelings for the bard. Turns out when you watch someone you love die you find out exactly _how much_ you love them. Geralt was _very_ in love with Jaskier. Every time those lifeless blue eyes stared at him he felt his heart break a little more. So far he’d been able to put it back together each morning, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go on like this. 

Knowing for certain that his feelings were reciprocated was nice, but he didn’t know how to bring _that_ up either. For now he’d focus on fixing this… whatever _this_ is. After he set things right Geralt would kiss his bard senseless. He’d find them the best inn around and lock them up for at _least_ a week. Maybe two. Until then he’d settle for taking liberties where he could. And if Jaskier had _noticed_ Geralt being a bit more touchy than usual he hadn’t objected to it yet. None of his iterations had, thankfully. 

“Is _that_ it?” Geralt followed the line of Jaskier’s pointing finger to the dilapidated hut in the small clearing ahead.

“...must be,” he grumbled his assent, moving to dismount Roach. He hoped his misgivings weren’t too terribly evident. Jaskier placed a hand on Geralt’s armoured shoulder and allowed the Witcher to grasp his waist, sliding off the saddle and into the circle of the Witcher’s arms. 

“Thanks love,” the bard winked, but made no move to separate himself. Geralt’s fingers splayed over Jaskier’s back. He savored the warmth of the skin beneath the fitted cotton shirt for a scant moment before pulling back, allowing himself just one hand barely skimming the small of Jaskier’s back. To… guide him, make sure he didn’t run off.

The two approached the hut, Jaskier knocking twice, sharply, against the aged door. Geralt’s eyes cast about the clearing—there was definitely _some_ magic here, though it was hard to tell what sort and from where. The door creaked open, seemingly by itself. Geralt moved Jaskier behind him and reached a hand back to hover over his swords. 

“Stop the posturing and get in here boys, I’ve not got the time for it,” a voice called out from inside the hunt. Jaskier looked up at Geralt as if asking for permission. The Witcher shook his head once. _He_ would go in first. One gloved hand pushed the door open and Geralt stepped over the threshold. 

Immediately he was struck by the warmth of the old hut. Indeed the inside looked _much_ more habitable than the outside… larger too. Maybe the witch _did_ know her stuff. Towards the back of the room against the fireplace stood a striking woman, a book in one hand, a large spoon in the other. She was tall and fine boned, with very light hair—blonde or white, Geralt wasn’t quite sure in the firelight—clad in a rough, homespun dress; she looked the part of a woman living within her means. The ageless quality of her face and teeth too straight and white for a commoner told a different story. 

“Ooh, brewing up a magic potion?” Jaskier pushed past Geralt and headed towards the fireplace. They really needed to have a conversation about _caution_ once all of this was settled. 

“No dear, just some stew. Would you like a bowl?”

“Oh _yes_ —”

“No, he would _not_.” 

Jaskier turned to glare at Geralt. He’d be taking no chances. Geralt put himself between the witch and his bard. 

“My friend is cursed. We need help to break it,” she looked him up and down, as if judging the quality of a horse at market before heaving a great sigh. 

“Fine, fine, have a seat, both of you,” she motioned at the short stools to the left of the fireplace. The witch closed her book with a _thump_ and set both it and the spoon on the ledge above the fire. “Now tell me about this curse.”

“It’s a _vengeance_ curse, my lady. It causes _great_ suffering, _untold_ horror—” The witch held a hand up to silence Jaskier. Something in her stern expression quieted his dramatics. 

“What on _earth_ did you tell him, Witcher? No, never mind, not important. It’s obvious neither of you know what’s going on,” she approached Jaskier, using one finger to tilt his chin up. The bard didn’t fight it, merely offering up a cheeky grin. She turned his head this way and that, pried open his mouth to examine his throat, plucked a hair to hold up against the light of the fire, hemming and hawing all the while. Geralt had the distinct feeling they were being mocked. 

“What’s the verdict, my lady?” Jaskier mumbled around the index finger still holding his mouth open. She shushed him, then leaned down to press her nose against the crown of his head. She dropped her hands and took one large step back. 

“He _reeks_ of fae,” she growled at Geralt, an accusation clear in her words. The Witcher’s brows drew together in confusion—he’d not _noticed_ any fae magic floating about and Jaskier smelled as he always did; of honey, lavender and human sweat. Jaskier glanced between the two, for once saying nothing. 

“Then what do you suggest, witch?” Geralt ground out, his patience wearing thin. Maybe he was wrong about her capabilities after all. 

“I’ve a potion that could work,” she started, plucking a vial off the cluttered worktable under the window. “If it _is_ fae in origin it should neutralize the magic, bring everything back to its starting value so to speak.” 

“And if it’s _not_ fae?” Geralt eyed the vial warily. Its contents were milky white and slightly iridescent. 

“If it’s _not_ fae then nothing will happen, you’ll be back at square one,” she plucked the cork from the neck of the vial before handing it to Jaskier, who took it cautiously between two fingers as if it were ready to bite. 

“Geralt, I don’t know about this,” he looked frightened. 

The Witcher weighed his options. Best case scenario it worked and all this would be over. Middle ground it _didn’t_ work and nothing happened. _Worst_ case scenario Jaskier died—again—and he’d have a fresh start anyway. So, though it went against every protective instinct Geralt had, he knew what must be done. 

“Drink it Jask. Everything will be fine, I promise.” Geralt had broken a lot of promises lately. 

Jaskier stared down at the vial in his hand before glancing back up at Geralt, his expression unreadable. He knocked the potion back, swallowing it down in one large gulp. All three sat in silence, waiting. 

“Well I guess we’re back to—” Jaskier paled, looking suddenly very panicked. A wet cough had blood spewing from his mouth and down the front of his shirt.

“You _bitch_ ,” Geralt snarled at the witch, rushing to the bard. Jaskier tried to take a breath but it sounded as if he was sucking liquid through a straw. The blood was coming faster now and he was trying to say something, but only a gurgle came out. “ _Fix him_ ,” Geralt commanded, not bothering to look at the witch. He heard her chanting something low in Elder tongue, and suddenly Jaskier was frozen. 

“You know, you could have _told_ me it was time magic,” she knelt next to Geralt, observing the dying bard with an impassive face. 

“He—he didn’t…”

“...didn’t know?” She finished for him. Geralt nodded. 

“If I had told him… would he…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the question, the realisation that this was probably _his_ fault settled heavy on him. 

“Oh no, he’d still be quite dead,” the witch’s voice was conversational, “though I don’t imagine that’s much of a problem considering the nature of your predicament,” she stood, brushing the dirt from her skirt. 

“How did you know? Why is this happening?” Geralt’s hands were on the bard’s knees. He couldn’t bring himself to let go. 

“I couldn't have frozen him if he wasn’t already caught up in some sort of time magic,” the witch went back to the hearth to pick up her spoon. “As for the potion… well he’s either allergic to something in it or a fae himself,” she shrugged as she went back to stirring her stew. Her blasé attitude should have bothered the Witcher, but he felt so _very_ hollow. 

“Then what do I do?” His voice sounded as broken as he felt. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I can unfreeze him, but he’ll still die. I’m sure you’ve seen enough of that at this point… if you want I can put him out of his misery now, so he doesn’t feel it.” Geralt cupped Jaskier’s face, his bright blue eyes were wide and afraid. Geralt said nothing. 

“You should leave. I hardly think you need to watch this,” the witch’s voice was as gentle as the hand she’d laid on his shoulder. Geralt shook his head.

“Fine,” she nudged Geralt out of the way to kneel next to Jaskier. “Don’t come back here, Witcher. I don’t want this magic in my home again. It smells of death.” 

Geralt caught sight of the blade in her hand.

He shut his eyes. 

Like a _coward_ , he shut his eyes. 

* * *

1.118

“Jaskier?” The shoulder beneath the Witcher’s hand was warm, solid. One blue eye cracked open, then shut again. 

“S’too early Geralt,” he muttered, shrugging the hand off. 

“Jask, I need to talk to you,” both eyes opened this time, prompted by the severity of the tone. 

“What is it Geralt?” His voice was no longer sleep addled as he sat up to look Geralt in the eyes. He was worried. 

“I…wanted to…” _Just do it, are you a Witcher or not?_

“You know I care for you, right Jaskier?” He was a craven sack of shit. 

“Of course I… what’s wrong? You’re not—you’re not leaving me, are you?” Jaskier’s voice was small, the hurt plain as day. 

“ _No_.” The answer came a bit too quickly, and with more force than he’d intended. The bard said nothing, but the hurt, confused look on his face hadn’t changed. He didn’t believe Geralt. 

“You are… the best thing I’ve ever had. A life without you isn’t a life I want to live. You’re irritating and overly dramatic and you cause too many bar fights for no reason but I couldn’t—can’t lose you.” Jaskier looked bewildered. 

“Geralt… are you ill?” The white wolf put his face in his hands. He was _no good_ at this. It bothered him that Jaskier’s immediate assumption was some sort of illness; it was plain as day Geralt would have to work on voicing his feelings more often if this was how his bard reacted. 

“I _love_ you goddammit,” the admission was muffled against Geralt’s fingers and the silence that met his confession had him _seriously_ rethinking this plan of action. Hands gripped his wrist, pulling them gently away. Geralt let him.

“You mean it?” The bard hadn’t let go, his expression as guarded as he could manage, though the raw _hope_ in his eyes was clear to the Witcher. 

“Every word.” 

And suddenly there was a mouth on his and hands in his hair. Jaskier kissed the same way he performed; there was a current of joy in him, an overwhelming presence of wonder and _enthusiasm_. His tongue ran across Geralt’s lower lip, asking entrance, to which he obliged. He licked into the Witcher’s mouth, straddling him in the process, thighs spread wide to settle himself flush against the Witcher's hips. 

“You have _no idea_ how long I’ve waited for you to say that,” the admission was breathless and Geralt almost spoke to the contrary, but Jaskier’s teeth scraped against his pulse point and his tongue was licking a deliciously hot line down towards his collar bone.

Geralt groaned at the attention being lavished to his neck, letting his hands settle lightly on the bard’s back. He could feel Jaskier’s erection pressing into his hip and his own cock twitched in reply. One hand wrapped itself in Geralt’s hair and pulled his gaze back with surprising force. 

“I won’t break darling,” Jaskier purred into the shell of Geralt’s ear, rolling his hips in a truly _obscene_ manner. The Witcher’s light hold tightened, blunt nails digging hard into the flesh of Jaskier’s waist. “I think you can do better than _that_ , wolf,” the whisper held a hint of challenge. 

In one smooth motion Geralt had flipped Jaskier roughly onto his back. He settled himself between his thighs, one hand fisted into dark brown hair, the other tearing open the fine cotton of Jaskier’s shirt. He had expected some complaint, but the tortured moan he’d elicited held nothing but encouragement. Geralt lapped at the hollow of the bard’s throat, then moved down to lavish attention on one pert, pink nipple. Jaskier’s hands flew up to Geralt’s head and his murmurs of encouragement were lost to a litany of moans. Geralt snaked one hand down to palm Jaskier’s engorged cock and though his touch was light the bards hips jerked up violently. 

“Gods Geralt please _please_ ,” he gasped. 

“What do you want, little songbird?” A shiver went through the bard’s lithe frame. _He likes that name_ , Geralt noted. 

“I want it _rough_ ,” he panted. _We’ll see about that._

Geralt caught the bard’s wrists in one large hand, moving to pin them above his head. The sheer _need_ in those blue eyes sent a harsh jolt of desire through him. He leaned down into a kiss, forcing those wet, pink lips open with his own, fucking into the mouth with his tongue. He bit down hard on Jaskier’s lower lip, enough to draw blood, and the coppery taste on his tongue was the best thing he’d experienced in _years_. The answering thrust of the bard’s hips were uncontrolled, involuntary. 

Geralt sat back on his haunches and looked down at his bard. His lips were stained red with blood and his pupils so large his eyes seemed to be black. He hadn’t moved his hands from above his head, even without the viselike grip keeping them there. He looked well and thoroughly _debauched_. 

“Oil, love?” The suggestion was made in a neutral voice, Jaskier’s eyes flicked over to his pack next to them. Geralt snagged the bag by its strap and dragged it over, fishing out the bottle of lavender oil he’d used the night before. Well, a hundred or so nights before. He sat the oil down, busying himself with divesting his bard of the rest of his clothing. 

“Can’t believe I’m letting you fuck me in the middle of the fucking forest,” Jaskier huffed a laugh as he lifted his hips helpfully. Geralt dragged the silk trousers down his legs and savored the sight for a moment. 

“Haven’t heard any objections so far,” he flicked the tip of his tongue out against the slit of Jaskier’s head to taste the precum. The sharp intake of breath was music to his ears. 

“You are going to buy me a _nice_ hotel room,” Geralt sank down on Jaskier’s cock, taking him down to the base. “A-and a _bath_ . You’re buying me a bath too,” his voice was strangled. “And you’re—oh _fuck_ ,” Geralt sucked, hard, before dragging his lips and tongue back towards the head. With one hand he blindly uncorked the oil, spreading it generously onto his hand. He pressed one oil-slick fingertip against the bard’s tight hole, releasing his cock so as to not be over with things _too_ quickly. 

Geralt’s eyes rose, watching the bard squirm against him. He lowered his mouth again, enjoying the hitch in Jaskier’s breath. He slipped his finger past the ring of muscles and bit down on the soft, pale skin of Jaskier’s inner thigh. He crooked the finger and Jaskier began to sob. Keeping steady pressure on the bite—not enough to break skin, but plenty to discourage moving—Geralt inserts another finger, waiting a moment for Jaskier to accommodate the girth before scissoring his digits. 

“ _Harder_ ,” Jaskier breaths, and Geralt begins to piston in and out of his wanton bard. “No, no, gods Geralt, your _mouth_ ,” he glanced up at that, hesitating. Jaskier chanced a hand on Geralt’s hair and the dark pleasure he saw in his bard’s eyes had the Witcher’s teeth sinking into that soft, delicate skin. His back arched violently, cock bobbing against his hip as he did. As Geralt ran his tongue soothingly across the wound he inserted a third finger. 

“Oh yes, _yes_ , do that again, _please_ ,” Geralt didn’t hesitate this time, simply moving up to the thin skin of his hip. His cheek rested against Jaskier’s cock and he revelled in the musky smell of precum before fastening his teeth around the protruding hip bone. He curled his fingers to hit that sweet bundle of nerves inside his bard as he bit down… he was only a _little_ surprised when thick spurts of cum shot over the bard’s stomach.

Geralt carefully withdrew his fingers, bracing himself on one elbow to survey his work. Jaskier’s thighs were splayed open, claret staining his inner thigh and hip. His cock was limp against his lower belly and Geralt couldn’t help the impulse to lean down and lick him clean. The taste of jizz mingled with blood made his dick twitch in interest and Geralt wasn’t sure how he felt about _that_ new kink. 

“I love you, and I’m not just saying that because you made me see stars,” Jaskier’s fingers were stroking Geralt’s hair, he looked utterly sated. 

“And I love you, songbird,” the Witcher made to lay next to his bard but was stopped by a hand on his chest. 

“Oh you’re not done,” Jaskier nodded pointedly at the bulge of Geralt’s cock straining against the laces of his trousers. 

“Are you sure you—”

“Shut up and fuck me you great oaf,” Jaskier tugged Geralt down to press a kiss against his temple. The Witcher needed no more encouragement. He flipped the bard over, positioning him so that his chest was pressed down into the bedroll and his hips angled up. Geralt quickly unlaced and drew his cock out, the touch of even his own hand as he coated himself with oil making him twitch. 

“Oh good to see I _wasn’t_ exaggerating when I wrote the ballad of the White Wolf’s Great—oh sweet Melitele—” Geralt pushed into the puckered hole, stealing the bard’s words and eliciting a long, low groan. He went slow, mindful of the admittedly considerable size of his member. 

“Dammit Geralt are you going to sit there all day enjoying the view or are you going to _fuck me_ ,” he bottomed out in one quick thrust, a grin coming to his lips as Jaskier’s hands scrambled for purchase against the bedroll.

“You’re too mouthy, you know that?” Geralt grabbed a handful of the bard’s hair, pulling him roughly up against his chest. The wince of pain would have made him pause if not for the hardened cock he took in hand. 

“And what are you going to do about it?” Geralt let go of his hair and moved his hand towards that slender neck—not applying pressure, but rather waiting for a reaction. Jaskier nodded his head, pressing himself down on Geralt’s cock. The Witcher tightened his hold, enough to make breathing just a little bit harder, and began to piston up into that sweet, tight heat. He guided the bard’s body with one hand on his uninjured hip, alternating between a steady pace and a slow swivel of hips that had Jaskier making the most _delicious_ noises. 

“I’m going to finish in you little bard,” Geralt huffed against the shell of Jaskier’s ear, biting his earlobe gently. A frantic nod served as his reply, one small hand coming up to his throat. Geralt began to ease his grip, worried he’d hurt the smaller man, but then Jaskier was bringing it back to his throat, squeezing harder. 

Geralt took the hint, carefully applying just enough pressure to completely cut off his airway. He reached a hand around to Jaskier’s stiff cock, fisting around it and jerking in time with his thrusts once, twice, and then his seed was spilling into Jaskier’s ass. Geralt braced both hands on the brunet's hips as his own continued in small, minute thrusts, the twitching muscles of Jaskier’s tender hole milking every last drop.

Geralt withdrew slowly, easing the both of them down to the bedroll. 

“Feel like we should’ve discussed that first,” he murmured, gathering Jaskier’s trembling body up in his arms and wrapping himself around him. 

“Oh I feel like it worked out just fine,” he retorted against the well muscled chest. The slick feel of blood on Geralt’s hands made that statement feel a bit far-fetched. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt felt him nod, before pressing a kiss against the sweaty mop of hair. 

It seemed as if Geralt blinked and the sun had changed position, burning low in the sky now. They must’ve dozed off. Jaskier had never made it this late before. 

The Witcher sat up and surveyed the scene. Jaskier’s back was covered with dried blood from where Geralt had held him. The wound at his hip had stopped bleeding, at least. Geralt grabbed a rag from the bard’s pack and tried in vain to get the rust-brown flakes off his hands. He’d need to wash. 

“Hello beautiful,” Jaskier mumbled, reaching out to rest a hand on Geralt’s thigh. Geralt turned to look at him, watching him carefully as he took stock of himself. He hoped the bard wasn’t regretting their tryst. 

“Whoo-hoo hoo wow oh would you look at that,” he sat up to get a better look at his back. 

“I’m sorry…” Geralt turned away, he didn’t want to see whatever was going through his songbird’s head. 

“Nope, no, nuh-uh, none of that,” a very naked bard draped himself over Geralt’s back, his arms coming around his shoulders. “I _asked_ for this darling,” the Witcher turned in the embrace, horrified to see a smudge of blood on Jaskier’s pale cheek. He’d seen enough of his bard’s blood lately that the fact _this_ one was his doing made him sick to his stomach. 

“I hurt you,” he touched the dirty cheekbone with one finger, then drew back sharply when he caught sight of the blood still on his own hands. 

“Oh come off it, Geralt. I’m perfectly fine, we just both need a bit of a scrub,” He stood, holding one hand out in askance. Geralt’s eyes landed on the bite marks, which he had to admit didn’t actually look that bad at all. Jaskier followed his eyes, “I bleed like a stuck pig. Just need some more iron in my diet. Now let’s go wash off, I’ve got cum oozing out of me and it’s not exactly the most _comfortable_ thing I’ve ever experienced,” his voice was filled with mirth, sunny and pleased as Geralt gripped his hand. The Witcher allowed himself a scant moment of happiness.

He’d dressed quickly, having not completely removed any of his clothing. Jaskier was a bit slower, taking some time to find another shirt to replace the one he’d destroyed. Once clothed, the two walked hand in hand through the small forest pathway to the river just down the hill. 

“What brought this on, love?” Jaskier looked up at Geralt. “I mean why _today_? Not that I’m complaining of course,” he winked. Geralt was silent, unsure of how to answer. 

_I got tired of having to watch you die without knowing I loved you._

“I don’t know…” he squeezed Jaskier’s hand.

_I wanted to kiss you without the taste of blood in my mouth._

“Just felt like time,” his voice was wooden. 

Blessedly they arrived upon the stream. “Race you!” Jaskier whipped his shirt over his head, hopping on one foot as he struggled with a boot. Geralt tried not to worry about the rough bank of rocks he was precariously balanced on, instead focusing on his own shoes. He heard a splash as the bard cannonballed into the stream, Geralt kept his eyes trained on the water and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when a mop of brown hair surfaced. 

“Come _on_ slowpoke!” Geralt smiled, hastening with the tie on his trousers. Another splash echoed and he looked back up—but Jaskier was nowhere to be found. His breath caught in his throat. 

Naked but for his half laced trousers Geralt dove into the stream. Ahead and to his left he saw Jaskier, motionless and in the clutches of a drowner. He swam like a man possessed, cursing himself for not bringing his swords. 

He came upon the beast and wrenched his bard away, pushing him up towards the surface. He prayed to any god that would listen; _let him still be conscious, let him make it up_ . The drowner raked its claws across Geralt’s stomach, enraged at its prey having been ripped away. The Witcher bared his teeth, grappling the monstrosity for one long moment before he was able to break its grasp. Geralt pushed his thumb through one of its large, milky eyes, and used his hold on the socket to swing the thing around. He _twisted_ until he felt the telltale snap of the small bones in its neck. 

Geralt released the drowner and swam for the surface, arms pumping furiously as he locked eyes on Jaskier’s form, the water around which a murky red. He broke through the surface blinking rapidly. He looped an arm around Jaskier, who had been weakly treading water. The swim to the shore was too slow, the weight of his bard and the severity of his own injury making the journey difficult. 

_Finally_ he dragged them both up onto solid ground, and—oh. Oh _no_. 

The drowner had gutted him, ripping a hole in his abdomen from where his intestines were dragging behind. Jaskier was coughing up water, his head lolling to the side. 

“Not gonna make it am I?” His voice was hoarse. Geralt’s hands hovered over the mass of organs that should be _in_ his bard, not _next_ to him. He couldn’t speak. 

“I love you,” Jaskier whispered. Silent tears ran down Geralt’s face. Not again, _please_ not again.

“I love you too,” he bent over Jaskier, brushing a kiss against his forehead. 

“I’m glad I got to have this before…” he wasn’t choking anymore. 

Geralt screamed. 

* * *

1.962

Geralt steadied his breathing. The shallow cuts on his left arm stung. Judging from the light of the early dawn he had about thirty minutes before Jaskier would wake. It would only take ten or fifteen for it to be over. He needed to hurry, he didn’t want Jaskier to see—or god forbid, try to _stop_ him. 

Geralt clutched the dagger in his right hand, willing the tremors to cease. He placed the tip against his wrist, just above the radial artery and dug into his skin. He dragged the blade up his forearm to the junction of his elbow and waited. 

Not deep enough. 

Blood oozed lazily from the multiple cuts he’d made, none deep enough to actually do the job. This went against every instinct Geralt had. He didn’t _like_ pain, and he desperately wanted to live… but this was one of the few things he’d yet to try. He’d worried about leaving the bard alone, but surely it couldn’t be worse than being trapped in this purgatory (albeit unknowingly). And if he were to be completely honest with himself… well maybe he was just tired himself. The sweet embrace of death didn’t seem all that bad when he considered the alternative—an eternity of repeating days, an eternity of failing his best friend, the love of his life _over and over again_.

The Witcher sighed. His head was fuzzy with blood loss. Five or ten minutes then, not ten or fifteen. 

He examined his wrist, the pale skin flayed open and sickeningly similar to a cut of meat. He could scarcely see his flesh under the blood. Geralt repositioned the dagger, setting the tip further to the right. The ulnar artery was deeper, harder to get to, but he didn’t think he could bring himself to slice through the mess he’d already made again. He bit down on the fabric of his shoulder and _pressed_ . The blade sunk in… probably deep enough. He hoped. He shut his eyes tight and dragged the dagger up his arm. _This_ one would work. He could feel it. 

Once the blade had come to rest against the thin skin of his inner elbow Geralt withdrew the dagger. He stared impassively at his handiwork. Bright red blood came in spurts, painting the ground in front of him a macabre scarlet. The edges of his vision were beginning to go black, and Geralt let his head fall back against the tree trunk he’d been leaning on. It was almost over. 

“Oh no, no, gods Geralt what have you _done_ ?” His eyes shot back open. Jaskier’s lute-calloused fingers were brushing over the last cut he’d made. How long had he been? He shouldn’t be awake, he shouldn’t be seeing— _fuck_. 

Geralt _should_ have gone out, done this away from camp. Away from where Jaskier could wake up and see him. But the coward that he was, he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted his bard to be the last thing he saw. Stupid. He was _so stupid_. 

“Darling, here, look at me. _Look_ at me. Oh fuck, there’s so much—what do I do? _What do I do Geralt_?” Jaskier’s voice was panicked, Geralt blinked owlishly up at him. His tongue felt too big for his mouth. 

“S’okay. I love you,” he mumbled. Jaskier started crying. 

“Don’t you _dare_ . I’m not letting you go, not now dammit, not that you’ve said—” his voice broke. Geralt’s eyes were closed now and he heard fabric rip. There was pressure at his elbow and he had the vague feeling of the bard fashioning a tourniquet (little good it would do _now_ ). At least it showed he’d been listening during Geralt’s many ‘what to do if things go tits up’ lectures. 

“ _Why_ , Geralt? What happened? Why didn’t you… oh dearheart,” Jaskier was sobbing in earnest now. Geralt lifted his good hand to wipe away the tears, but stilled when he saw the bright red smear he’d left behind. 

“Take care of you,” he murmured, fully aware of how nonsensical he sounded. He tugged weakly, pulling Jaskier into his lap. His left arm wouldn’t lift, but the one armed embrace was enough. He was so cold. 

“You always take care of me. Why couldn’t you let me take care of _you_?” Hands were everywhere, on his face, in his hair, tapping against his clavicle. Lips brushed against his, and though the Witcher desperately wanted to respond he couldn’t move. 

“Sorry you… saw… love you…” he knew his eyes were open, but everything was black.

“I love you too,” and though Geralt couldn’t feel his body anymore he knew his songbird was holding him.

For once he wasn’t the one to say goodbye.

* * *

1.1095

Geralt stared unblinking at the pale sky of the early morning. He sat up in his bedroll and leaned forward onto his knees. He’d tried so many times. He felt the ghost of the rough rope against his throat, the sharp sting of the blade against his wrist, the cloying sweetness of the nightshade in the back of his throat. 

He wondered when he stopped trying for Jaskier and started trying for himself. 

His eyes settled on the sleeping form of the bard. His heart ached, in that steady clench of love. He’d been mulling over what he was about to do for at _least_ a month. More, probably. He pushed the blanket off of his legs and rose silently. 

There was a knot in his stomach, and he wondered idly when he’d last ate. He always woke with the venison they’d eaten—what, three years ago—heavy in his belly. It churned now, and he tasted the sour acid of bile rising up. He had to do this. 

He retrieved the dagger from its place under the head of his bedroll, unsheathing it slowly. He hated this fucking blade. Hated the things he’d done with it. If this ever ended he’d never be able to look at it again. 

Geralt sank to his knees next to Jaskier’s softly snoring form. He looked so at peace when he was asleep. His dark brown hair curled at the ends, mussed from his pillow, his eyelashes seemed black against the fair skin of his cheek (though Geralt knew them to be a deep chocolate color). The Witcher sat, silent and unmoving for a very long moment. 

He knew if this worked he’d have to kill himself. Have to _stay_ dead this time, because he’d never be able to forgive what he was about to do. He pulled his fingers into the sign for Axii, not wanting his songbird to wake. If he had to look into his eyes he wouldn’t be able to do it. 

Geralt could feel the magic gather against his fingertips and he flipped the dagger, holding it in a white knuckled grip. Every muscle in his body was straining. He let out a puff of air when he realized he was holding his breath. The shaky inhale was too much and he stood abruptly, dropping the sign and stumbling away from camp, hopefully far enough to not wake Jaskier as he vomited. 

When the only thing coming up was bile he managed to center his focus, slow his breathing and felt the nausea begin to abate. He went to wipe his mouth on his sleeve and saw, much to his horror, he was still holding the dagger. He threw it in the direction of camp, knowing it would land next to his pack. He knew every inch of that camp. 

God what had he almost done. How _could_ he. 

The Witcher shambled back, sitting heavily down on his bedroll. He drew his knees up to his chest and carded his fingers through his already falling hair. It took every ounce of his hard won self control to keep his breath steady. He heard Jaskier stir, but made no move to look up.

“Ah… Geralt? Are you… uh, are you alright there?” He did not move. He _sickened_ himself. He can’t believe he almost… almost…

“Geralt?” He felt like crying, but it had been a very long time since he last managed. He wasn’t sure he could. He heard his bard shimmy out of the bedroll and approach. 

“Hey, what’s going on?” Geralt grabbed his wrist before he could lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. He didn’t deserve the gesture of kindness. 

“I’ve been repeating the same goddamned day for three years, Jaskier. _Three years_ ,” He managed to ground out, eyes slowly coming up to meet the bard’s. He made a decision, then, one that probably wouldn’t work (since nothing _else_ had). “Every fucking time you die. I’ve had to watch you die a thousand times. I _know_ this is hard to believe but I need you to trust me—”

“Yeah alright I’m with you, what have we tried so far?” Geralt’s mouth fell open. “ _We_ have tried, right Geralt? This isn’t… the first time you’ve…” he released the wrist he’d been holding. No, _they_ hadn’t tried anything. Only Geralt had. Always Geralt. Maybe Jaskier was right… maybe he _was_ a fool. 

“I see. Well nothing to do about it I suppose. You know, brilliant creature that I am, I’m very prepared for this,” gold eyes watched warily as the bard rummaged through his pack. 

“... have you written a song about greater time magics?” He caught the stiffening of shoulders and knew immediately that was exactly the wrong thing to say. 

“No, no, nothing like that I—well _honestly_ Geralt, you’d know the answer to that if you ever _listened_ to me,” he looked exasperated and hurt, the parchment he was holding crinkled where the bard grasped it a little too hard. 

“I’ve _been_ listening,” Geralt protested. He rose, quickly closing the gap between them to place a comforting hand over Jaskier’s. Judging from the way the parchment slipped to the ground, right through the bard’s trembling fingers _that_ hadn’t been the right thing to do either.

“You don’t mean that,” Jaskier insisted, his eyes flicked down to their joined hands. Geralt clenched his teeth. This man he so loved had _no idea_ how much he loved him. _None_. And though Geralt probably should have been used to his incredulity by now it still hurt to see the surprise in his songbird’s face. 

The Witcher raked his fingers through soft brown hair and pressed a gentle, open mouthed kiss against Jaskier’s lips. His nimble tongue shot out, tasting Geralt, then immediately drew back.

“How many times have you done this?” The question was very quiet, mumbled into the kiss as it was. The Witcher drew back just far enough to look into those cornflower blue eyes. 

“I… I don’t know,” he had an _idea_ , of course, but their physical coming together had never been the most important thing Geralt tracked. 

“Enough times that you’ve lost count,” Jaskier’s suggestion was gentle and the Witcher grimaced. He sometimes forgot that this Jaskier hadn’t heard his hundreds of ‘ _I love you_ ’s. A hand lifted to Geralt’s face and he leaned into the touch, savoring the warmth. He closed his eyes as a calloused thumb grazed over his lips.

“Well,” Jaskier stepped out of their embrace, and the Witcher hoped he didn’t look as disappointed as he felt. “I suppose we ought to get to it, walk me through everything you’ve tried so far and I’ll make a list,” the forgotten parchment was retrieved and the bard ambled over to the fallen elm. Oh _shit_ —

“ _No_!” Jaskier stopped in his tracks, turning to stare wide eyed at Geralt. “There’s… there’s, ah,” the Witcher stepped to the side, picking up the dagger from where he’d tossed it next to his pack. With a flick of his wrist he flung it towards the elm, knowing it had found its target without having to check. Jaskier slowly approached the fallen tree, peeking over to see what the fuss had been about. The blood drained from his face as he glanced back.

“Bet that was a messy one, eh?” The quip was delivered with a calculated nonchalance. Geralt remembered the cloying taste of rancid blood in his mouth. He retrieved the dagger, watching as the bard settled himself far away from the dead cobra. 

“You told me you loved me,” the Witcher murmured, wiping the blood from the blade. It didn’t really matter, but the habit was ingrained in him.

“Ah, professing my undying love with my _dying_ breath, how poetic,” the bard’s eyes were unfocused.

“You usually do… if you have the breath,” the admission was tinged with bitter humor. Jaskier shrugged, as if he had expected that answer. 

“I’m not surprised, I’m sure you know all about my years of pining with how many times you’ve had the conversation,” his voice was bitter and his eyes did not meet Geralt’s. The Witcher thought back to whispered conversations, so many gentle touches and hushed confessions.

“Jaskier, I don’t—”

“Snake! We’ll start the list with the snake, how’s that sound? Now, call out as many other causes that you can think of,” his voice was chipper and Geralt’s lips pursed, his songbird evidently didn’t want to hear his excuses. Geralt sat next to the bard, brushing his knee as he angled himself closer, and began to speak. 

* * *

“I _told_ you, if we go to the witch in the last village we passed she gives you a potion that you’re allergic to and you _choke on your own blood_ ,” Geralt was exasperated. He didn’t like recounting his many failures, and the growing stack of parchment at their feet showed just how _many_ failures there had been. Jaskier wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

“Okay, no witch, fine. Are you _sure_ I can’t go have a dip in the river? It’s so _hot_ ,” his voice was petulant and Geralt bristled. 

“ _No_ Jaskier, the drowners—”

“Which you know about and can dispatch before I even disrobe!”

“But when I _do_ you get caught in an undertow and get sucked under.”

“Then perhaps you’d be willing to come in and safeguard my personnage,” Jaskier waggled his eyebrows. 

“And when I do _that_ we’re both distracted with… other things and you slip on a rock and crack your head open,” that had been a wonderful day. Well, up until that last part.

“Geralt for Melitele’s sake this is _ridiculous_ . We’re getting nowhere. What did you _do_ to start this time-thingy?” His thigh burned hot where the bard touched him.

“If I _knew that_ don’t you think I’d have told you?” He snarled, his voice held a warning in it. Geralt clasped his hands, elbows settling on his knees. 

“There’s something you aren’t telling me. What happened that first day? The one that kicked this all off. Walk me through it, every minute.” Jaskier’s voice was quiet, soothing. He didn’t want to have this argument. 

“We woke up,” Geralt started, not looking up. “You—I, _we_ fought,”

“About?”

“The competition in Novigrad,” he ground out. Jaskier was quiet, as if mulling that over. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Was it because I was leaving?” He shook his head. “Geralt you’re going to have to tell me, unless you _want_ to start all over with this nonsense,” the bard threw his hands up, the picture of an irate school master.

“You mentioned paying a visit to the Passiflora,” he admitted, “because you were ‘light of coin and willing to take a trip down memory lane’.” A heavy silence fell. 

“You know, I was probably joking,” Geralt _glared_ at him. Jaskier shut up. 

“You never _told me_ what you had to do, Jaskier. I could have _protected_ you.” 

“I don’t _need_ protecting—” he sounded outraged.

“No, you just play the _whore_ every season I leave you alone,” Geralt barked. “If you had _said something_ I would have brought you with me. You could winter at Kaer Morhen, Vesemir wouldn’t mind. You didn’t have to _sell_ yourself for a roof over your head,” he could feel his throat tightening, his words becoming strained under the weight of the pain in them.

“I would have taken care of you,” he finished weakly. A small sound escaped Jaskier’s throat and Geralt moved to rise—he couldn’t do this again. The sound of the bard falling had Geralt whipping around, the sight of Jaskier on his hands and knees in the dirt made his heart skip a beat. He lifted the lithe young man up, settling him back on the tree trunk. He checked his bard over for injuries, movements jerky.

“Are you okay? You’re not hurt?” He _seemed_ alright.

“I’m fine, Geralt I’m _fine_ ,” small, strong hands gripped his wrists. They stared at each other, Geralt at eye level from his position between the bard’s thighs. 

“This was the fight, wasn’t it?” He nodded. 

“And then what?” The question was quiet.

“You left. There were bandits. I was too late,” he heard the screaming of the murderers as they burned, felt blood hot and sticky between his fingers, saw lifeless blue eyes open, staring at nothing. 

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” his voice cracked. That first time was still the hardest to recall. He buried his face in the crook of Jaskier’s shoulder, unable to staunch the flow of tears. It was somehow comforting that he could still cry. Geralt let the vibrations of the bard’s humming wash over him.

“I’ve got you my love. You won’t have to say goodbye,” a kiss was pressed against the crown of his head, and Geralt remembered how much he loved it when Jaskier did that. His sobs turned to whimpers, but he didn’t move away. Jaskier was wrong.

“You don’t know that. I’ve said goodbye so many times,” Geralt murmured against his bard’s clavicle. Soft hands were on his face as Jaskier pulled him up to look at him. He touched his forehead to Geralt’s, and the intimacy of the moment made the Witcher wish it would never end.

“I know you have dearheart. I know. I can’t promise that we’ll fix it today, but _we will fix it_. However long it takes. You tell me from now on and we’ll do it together. I won’t let you do this alone,” there was a promise in Jaskier’s smile. Geralt opened his mouth to agree, but was cut off by the soft press of lips against his. 

Geralt ran his tongue over Jaskier’s lower lip before nipping it gently, the responding bite drew blood and Geralt almost smiled at the familiarity of it all. A hand closed around the front of the Witcher’s shirt and yanked _hard_ , the growl it elicited was automatic. Geralt moved his hand to the back of Jaskier’s head, holding him firmly in place as he angled his hips to graze against his bard’s hard, straining cock. Geralt released his mouth to bite down on the junction of Jaskier’s neck, right where he knew he liked it.

“Please, _gods_ Geralt please—” desperation colored his voice and Geralt plucked Jaskier’s lithe body off the elm with ease. Long legs wrapped around his waist and fingernails sank into his back as he walked them back to the thick trunk of a tree.

“I’ve got you little songbird,” Jaskier nodded. Geralt drew back to lick a line up from the bruised flesh of the fresh bite up to his pulse point. He adjusted his hands so they were cupping the bard’s ass, the full body shiver brought by his squeeze was immensely satisfying. 

“You’re _my_ bard,” Geralt growled, and though Jaskier was already nodding his assent Geralt’s hand settled on that sweet, slender neck to drive home the point. 

“Yours, I’m yours,” Geralt felt the flutter of Jaskier’s pulse beneath his hand, the quickening when he pulled the bard into a harsh kiss. Jaskier sucked on Geralt’s tongue, and the Witcher _groaned_ , the already squirming hips under his hands began to thrust forward involuntarily. 

Geralt pulled back and the pained sound that escaped his bard brought a cruel smile to his lips. _We’re only just starting, little songbird_. He unlaced the silk brocade trousers with one practiced hand, pushing them down to wrap long fingers around Jaskier’s throbbing cock. He ran his thumb over the moist slit of the head, using the precum to wet his grip.

“Geralt I’m not going to last if you—” Geralt twisted his hand in time with the gentle bite he placed over Jaskier’s pulse point. He could smell the salty tears that pricked at the edges of those blue eyes.

“You’ll finish when I _let_ you,” Geralt set the bard down gently, surveying his work with a small smile. Jaskier’s entire body was trembling, eyes clenched tightly shut; he was only upright for the grace of the tree at his back. 

The Witcher knelt, placing his large hands under the bard’s muscled thighs. He lifted them up and over his shoulders, letting the weight settle over him. He watched as Jaskier’s eyes flew open in shock. Keeping his gaze on the bard, Geralt peppered soft kisses over the exposed ivory skin of his hip, deliberately steering clear of the cock desperately begging for his attention. 

He really _was_ beautiful. Jaskier’s creamy skin was flushed pink, bite marks standing out in sharp contrast against his neck and shoulder. The blue of his eyes was nearly imperceptible against his blown out pupils, kiss reddened lips were open just a bit as his tongue darted out to wet them; Geralt drank in the image, burning it into his mind. He never wanted to forget this. 

Geralt exhaled over Jaskier’s cock and the moan that escaped his bard’s throat was wild. The Witcher tightened his hold on his hips enough to _know_ it stung.

“What do you want, songbird?” Fingers found their way into his hair.

“You, I want _you_ , please Geralt—” and _that’s_ what he was waiting for. Lips closed over Jaskier’s member, and Geralt swallowed him down to the base. His throat constricted uncomfortably around the intrusion, but he’d had a _lot_ of experience lately.

“You are _very_ good at that,” his voice was breathless, when Geralt swirled his tongue over that spot he knew Jaskier loved. The bard fell forward, bracing his hands on Geralt’s shoulders. He smelled the coppery tang of blood and pulled back, letting the head slip from his lips with a wet _pop_. 

“It’s _fine_ Geralt, I’m fine and I swear to all the gods if you stop now I will throw myself off a fucking cliff, _please_ ,” Jaskier was insistent, Geralt couldn’t fight back the low growl that was escaping the back of his throat. 

“I will tie you to this tree, bard,” Geralt promised, punctuating it with a hard bite to Jaskier’s inner thigh—the same spot he’d bitten their first time all those days ago. The bard’s reaction was exactly what he expected; a full body tremor, hitching breath, fingers tightening on his shoulders.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” his voice was strained and Geralt’s laugh was more of a hum as he brought up a hand to palm heavy balls.

“Hmm, maybe later,” he suggested, returning to lick his songbird from base to head, when he glanced up to find those wide blue eyes watching him he swirled his tongue lasciviously, tossing out a cheeky wind before returning his attention to the task at hand.

He sank back down, taking all of Jaskier in his mouth, inhaling deeply as his nose brushed the thatch of dark hair at the base. He sucked hard, loosening his grip enough to allow Jaskier to move. He hummed as his bard fucked wildly into his mouth, swallowing around the intrusion as the tip grazed the back of his throat. Jaskier was close, he could tell. 

Geralt squeezed the soft flesh of his ass, knowing it would send Jaskier over the edge. The bard came _hard_ , panting as he released into Geralt’s mouth.The Witcher swallowed, letting his tongue trail over the softening cock as he pulled off and gently moved his bard into a standing position, wrapping him in a warm embrace.

“How did you—” his voice was almost as unsteady as his legs.

“I’ve had a lot of practice. How is your back?” Geralt noted the little wince Jaskier made as he straightened. 

“Not too bad,” he stiffened a bit as Geralt’s fingers passed over the wound. He’d had worse. _Much_ worse. “We’ve lost most of the day,” the observation was quiet, and Geralt made a noncommittal noise. “Would you like to _continue_ wasting the day?” The look on Jaskier’s face was flirtatious, he pointed down to where the Witcher’s own cock was still straining against the laces of his trousers. 

“Usually it takes more convincing than that for you to let me take you in the middle of the forest,” Geralt gently led Jaskier to sit on one of the bedrolls. “It’s not an ‘affront to your dignity’?” Jaskier snorted.

“Bold of you to assume I _have_ dignity,” Geralt huffed a shocked laugh as he tugged the torn shirt over the bard’s head. Jaskier _somehow_ still managed to surprise him.

“You can be very prissy when you want to be, songbird,” not _every_ attempt at seduction had ended well, though Geralt was very glad this one _did_. He grabbed two vials from his pack, one the lavender oil he knew Jaskier favored, the other a medicinal salve given to him by Yennefer. He was a little too pleased at the way his songbird’s face fell when he sat the oil aside.

“Turn around,” he grunted. Jaskier rolled his eyes but did as he was told. Geralt _truly_ loved how compliant he got after a good orgasm.

“While I appreciate the sentiment you may as well wait until _after_ we’re done, considering your proclivity toward biting,” he smeared the minty paste over the scrape, surprised to see it had already stopped bleeding.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t like it,” he leaned forward to whisper against the shell of Jaskier’s ear. Geralt knew he could've gone a _lot_ farther and he would have still liked it. Jaskier hummed as he leaned back into the Witcher, who wrapped his arms around the smaller man. 

“It hardly feels fair, you know,” Jaskier’s head fell back onto Geralt’s shoulder, “you’ve got all this experience playing me like a lute and I hardly know where to start with you.”

“You’ll figure it out, you _always_ do.” Geralt turned the bard to straddle him, wanted to look him in the eyes. Jaskier was an open book to him by now, and he _knew_ that look of trepidation. Geralt grasped Jaskier’s chin, gently pulling his gaze up to meet his own. 

“What’s wrong?” The bard’s face crumpled and a small, hysterical sound caught in his throat.

“How many times have I told you I loved you?” The question was blurted out, obviously unplanned. Geralt’s brow furrowed. 

“Eight hundred sixty-three times,” his answer was immediate.

“...have you ever said it back?” 

“Every time.” 

Jaskier’s blue eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t want to forget this Geralt. This is all I’ve ever wanted and I won’t even know when it’s being torn away—” the octave of his voice was getting high, Geralt pulled him in close, gently pressing the bard’s face into the crook of his neck. He could feel the wet tears sliding down his songbird’s face.

“I love you Jaskier,” he murmured, thinking _very_ hard about what he’d say next. “I love you and I _couldn’t_ tell you, couldn’t watch this happen every day. At least how it was _I_ was the only one that knew to hurt.” And at that Jaskier began to sob in earnest.

“You stupid, selfless, _asshole_ ,” he slapped Geralt’s chest, harder than the Witcher had expected. “I can’t _believe_ you.”

“I… I’m sorry Jaskier,” Geralt was at a loss for words. He didn’t know how to convey the depth of his suffering, the pain he’d gone through to spare his bard this very situation.

“Just shut up, darling. Shut up and hold me,” Geralt complied. 

The two sat like that, clinging to each other for a very long time. The sun had sunk beneath the horizon, the chill of night creeping in when Jaskier cleared his throat to speak.

“Have I ever lived through a day?” Geralt shook his head slowly. He’d never even made it to nightfall before. “That’s a shame,” he mumbled sleepily, and Geralt could not agree more. He held his sleeping bard, thinking distantly he ought to make a fire, but completely unwilling to let go. The white wolf grabbed for the blanket next to them and gently lowered his songbird to the bedroll, carefully wrapping them both up in the heavy wool. He hoped— _desperately_ hoped that tomorrow would be different. 

* * *

2.

Geralt was very warm. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been warm when he woke up. He opened his eyes, then blinked several times as he locked eyes with the _source_ of that warmth. Jaskier was _in his bed_ . This was _different!_ He was very still, worried that this was some sort of dream, some cruel illusion that would shatter if he made the wrong move. 

And then, Jaskier’s arms were around him. His grip was strong and he clung so desperately that his whole body trembled.

“I love you,” he whispered, and Geralt’s hands were pushing him back to look, _really_ look at his bard. Unshed tears swam in his blue eyes and there—just over his pulse point was the deep bruise of a bite mark. 

_Oh gods it’s over_.

“You _remember_.”

Their kiss was desperate, cathartic, _theirs_.

Jaskier smelled of honey, lavender, sweat and love.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaand DONE! This was such a labor of love guys and I had so much fun writing it. If you've not read the first instalment in the series I _highly_ encourage you to check it out. 
> 
> The reference I used for Geralt's suicide attempt can be found [here](http://www.scriptmedicblog.com/injury-profiles-suicide-wrist-lacerations/), it's a great writer's resource! 
> 
> Thanks so much for sticking with me!


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